


Do They Make Hallmark Cards for That?  (H/C Bingo--nausea)

by Shakespeares_Girl



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Glam Rock RPF, Tommy Ratliff (Musician)
Genre: Fic, Gen, H/C bingo, Hurt/Comfort, Nausea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-13
Updated: 2012-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-29 11:09:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shakespeares_Girl/pseuds/Shakespeares_Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam gets the Flu of Death and ends up camped out in the bathroom.  Tommy had it a few weeks ago and comes over to see why Adam doesn't answer his phone.  Mild language and lots of vomiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do They Make Hallmark Cards for That?  (H/C Bingo--nausea)

 

Adam hates being sick, hates it more than almost anything else in the entire world. His stomach lurches and he gags vaguely, too sick to even care that he feels like he needs to vomit again. _Again_.

He's not sure how long he's been here, camped out on the chilly tile floor of the too-big bathroom, blanket spread over his lap, glass of water on the floor beside him, hunching over the toilet bowl tiredly whenever the skin beneath his chin tingles or his stomach gives a particularly worrying twist.

If there was a magical wish fairy that showed up right at this very second, all Adam would wish for is a bowl of chicken soup and the ability to sleep and curl over the toilet at the same time, so he didn't have to be miserable and tired and _awake_ and nauseous. God, please, just let him rest.

He hears his phone chirp from the other room, the generic ring tone he has set for text messages going off for the thirteenth time, and Adam tries really hard not to get superstitious over that, but he's sick, and his head hurts, and he just wants to go to bed, so it doesn't work, and he lets himself moan a little piteously as his stomach sends the water he'd managed to drink after the last round of vomiting back up.

“Adam, I'm coming in. If you're fucking or naked, this is your only warning!”

Adam stares into the toilet, then reaches up and flushes, mournfully watching as the water swirls away. Of course Tommy's here, of course. Tommy Joe, the only boy he's liked well enough to crush on despite both of them having and then breaking up with significant others. Tommy Joe, the guy he probably caught this from. He knew kissing little brown-eyed twinks with pretty mouths was going to bite him in the ass one day. Now, not only does he have the Flu of Death, Tommy's going to see him pale and sweaty and disgusting, alternating between shivering from cold and panting from heat while he hovers over porcelain. To Adam's fever-fried brain, it doesn't even matter that Tommy's totally seen him look worse while they're touring. Just that he's going to see him at all when he's this vulnerable.

“Oh Jesus,” Tommy sighs. “Would it kill you to text a guy next time? Maybe just a 'got the flu' text? Three words and I wouldn't have worried.”

“Tommy,” Adam whimpers, turning just enough to look up at him. “I'm _sick_.” It's both a plea and a warning.

“I know. Looks like what I had last week. Good news or bad news first?”

“Um . . .” It's too much decision for Adam, so he just stares at Tommy and blinks until Tommy huffs what might be a laugh.

“Okay, bad news first. Bad news is, your agent called, we've got a gig at the end of the week, and you're probably not going to feel too hot for it. Good news though? You're gonna stop barfing in about three hours, so you'll probably have a voice for the gig, if not much energy.”

“Lovely,” Adam rasps. “Oh god.” His stomach protests _something_ , and Adam tries not to cry as he dry heaves and spits into the toilet.

“Okay, come on,” Tommy soothes, kneeling down and rubbing Adam's back. “You're okay.”

“Doesn't feel like it,” Adam whines. At this point he's pretty sure he's run the gamut from moan to whine and back.

“You are,” Tommy promises. He rubs at Adam's shoulders and whispers sympathies and encouragement to Adam until finally Adam collapses backward into Tommy's chest.

“I wanna go to bed,” Adam says, voice trembling. “I don't even care if I have to vomit and get it all over my sheets, I want my bed.”

“All right,” Tommy agrees, smiling fondly and handing Adam a fresh glass of water. “Worst is over now, I promise.” They manage to get Adam tucked into bed somehow, and Tommy stays and rubs his back, makes sure he drinks the Pepto Adam left on the nightstand in his rush to the bathroom, hums softly until Adam starts to drop off.

He's a warm, solid presence at Adam's side, rocker-boy hard on the outside with the chewy-soft center—which makes no sense and Adam is totally going to blame _that_ comparison on the fever. Which seems to be getting better too. “Thanks,” Adam says, soft and a little hesitant. He's not sure what protocol is for thanking your bassist for rubbing your back while you hang over a toilet and hurl. Do they make a Hallmark card for that?

“You're welcome,” Tommy says, so Adam must have gotten it right at least partly. “It's okay, you rest now. I'll be in shouting distance when you wake up. Brought my DS.”

Adam smiles at that, and the last thought he has before he finally falls asleep is of Tommy, keeping watch over Adam and killing zombies with a stylus.  


 


End file.
